Paying the Toll
by Belsidat
Summary: One shot blink into the life of a tollkeeper R&R please I love feedback, it's how I get better! Rated for well, it's Warhammer, there's violence.


Author's Note:I don't own Warhammer or the like, this is just a one shot background for a WHFRP character I made up, I'd like to think it captures the feel of warhammer pretty well. Comments and criticism welcome!

Paying the Toll

"Traveler on the trail."

The sullen drawl of his partner drew Yavandir Brightgate out of his mid-evening doze. The gaunt elf slowly rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat his chair back down on all four legs on the porch of their thatched hut,"How many?" he asked while still coming around.

"One, mounted, no armor." Dishram continued, and Yavandir could visualize the disdainful scowl his fellow toll keep wore.

Dishram's answer made Yavandir pause mid-reach for his coat of mail. The armor was a life saver in a swirling melee, it's thick scales blunting otherwise lethal blows, but it was made for a human and fit very poorly over his seemingly emaciated frame. Yavandir thumbed the brim of his wide hat up to squint towards the approaching stranger. Elven eyes picked out things a human might miss. The traveler was fairly clean for the road, he led no train of animals, had no armor of note, and did not even carry much in the way of saddlebags on his pack. Yet the rider was not in a hurry, as a messenger might be. His horse walked slowly, picking it's way along the weed-strewn road until it got to the mark one hundred paces from the toll-house. There the weeds stopped, and the once pristine stones of this ancient elven road has been cleaned and reset as best as Yavandir's unskilled hands could manage.

Many of Bretonnia's roads had been marked over the ancient elven pathways that existed in a time when the High Elves of Ultha had colonized this land. Yavandir's family was one of six that had been charged all those generations ago with maintaining the roadways. They all managed in their own ways, as best they could. Each family bore one child in each generation for each of the great roads. It was a prodigious amount of breeding by elven standards, but very necessary in the darkness that had consumed the lands when the light of the elves had faded. Each child was given as a surname, the ancient name of the road they would take care of. And so, Yavandir, the youngest of his family, was given the name of his charge, Brightgate, a road that skimmed the coast, once heavy with traffic to the ports to the west, now a poor pathway that skirted the edge of Moullissan, the heart of evil within Brettonia. He had the vague notion the humans had named it the Great Tollway of Gwent, but he never put much stock in human names, they changed too quickly to carry any real meaning.

Well, one name carried meaning for him. Moullissan, the dark lands along the Northern coast of Brettonia, he had felt its darkness himself and even glimpsed one of it's fell knights in the woods along the road. It had been but for a moment, and at a great distance, but there had been no doubt in Yavandir's mind as to where the armoured knight, with his stag-horn helm and black cloak that seeped upon the leafy turf hailed from. Fear had lanced along his limbs, paralyzing him as the eye slits of the knight's helm turned his way. Yavandir had no doubt if he had been anything more than he was, a skinny elf in ill-fitting human clothing with no wealth or worth apparent, he would have died that day. But as it is, he was all those things, and nothing worth the dark knight's notice. The rider had turned his horse and continued through the woods, leaving behind a miasma that drew the life from the trees as he passed. Dusk had crept into night that night before he could gather enough of his wits to force his body to move. He never ventured closer to the knight's path, but he had felt the dark desperation and corruption in his elven blood.

As Dishram loaded and set a crossbow against the rail of the hut's porch Yavandir scooped up his shield and the crude human war hammer he used to discharge his duty. The hammer was nothing special, it's back-pick was useful for driving home against more heavily armored opponents, but it was the shield that mattered most. Painted across the wooden surface with more care and skill than Yavandir had seen humans devote to rearing their children, was Great Lion of Leon Lancour, and beneath that, the device of Lord Durcian, the ruler of Gwent and owner of this road. Dishram would remain behind, it was Yavandir's turn to risk his neck. Always one went and one stayed, so that one could flee and inform the Lord if any came along the road with blood on their minds.

The horse was traveling with greater surety, even tossing it's head as it came as close as the poor steed could to prancing. The rider seemed baffled by his horse's antics, and tugged the reins, digging in his heels to curb the animal's gait. Yavandir added the rider's inability to feel the joy of being upon a true elven road, carefully maintained, to his list of concerns. But there was nothing for it, he had a job to do, and just as his two remaining siblings; Alisannia Southride, and Illyanthia Tradewright, he would do his best.

Yavandir's long legs and light step ate the ground quickly between himself and the rider. He had to check his pace, having as normal turned it from a walk to a jog without thinking, such a thing unnerved the wary. Yavandir stopped a full ten paces from the horse to begin his standard pronouncement. "I am Yavandir Brightgate, you travel upon the road of my Lord Durcian of Gwent, I bear his charge and his shield. The toll is two pence per footman, six per rider, and one gold crown for all under arms." Yavandir held up his shield, displaying the sign of his Lord to reinforce his authority and waited, the unease still hanging about him, an itch that gathered in the tips of his ears.

The rider did not reign in his horse until he was right alongside Yavandir, The man had a hunger about him that set Yavandir even more on edge. Hungry humans were dangerous humans. He looked Yavandir up and down, with no chance that he could mistake the elven features at this range. Yavandir wore his large hat, despite it's uncomfortable heat to hide his ears and avoid the added trouble his heritage could cause him. Humans were offensive enough without giving them yet another reason to be foul.

"I know Lord Durcian." The rider began, forgoing his own introduction; his oily voice made Yavandir want to retch, "And I come from Benoic, with news."

Benoic was the capitol of Gwent, and not more than a few days off, which would explain much of what Yavandir had already noticed. "What news, and in who's name do you travel?" he asked, feeling uncomfortable with the horseman looming so close to him. But he couldn't back away, showing such an obvious sign of his unease could give strength to any thoughts of banditry the rider may have.

"The news is that Lord Durcian has passed, and his son Baltrich is the new Lord. I come bearing his seal with this news." The rider pulled forth a ring and presented it. The seal was similar to Durcian's, but with the addition of a pair of ravens framing the bottom corners. Yavandir had no reason to doubt it's authenticity. So he merely nodded.

"Consider your message delivered sir." He said, lowering his shield, a messenger from the Lord owed no tolls, "Is there any change in the road?" he asked, a new Lord could mean many changes.

"No changes to the road, the toll will still be collected." The rider said with a broken-toothed smile. He dipped his head and wheeled his steed around, ending the conversation. Yavandir turned as well to head back to the hut, and felt the unease crawl up his spine and drive into the back of his mind. He couldn't tell immediately why, then it hit him, where was Dishram? He pivoted back towards the rider, and his keen elven hearing allowed him to catch the grumbled words that confirmed his fears, "Just not by you, elven filth."

Yavandir ducked back as motion passed his peripheral vision, arching and twisting, barely keeping his high center of balance. The blow clipped the large hat from his head, dull metal shredding flimsy cloth but missing his head. He tried to put distance between himself and the rider who now hacked down viciously with a poor but serviceable blade towards his head, but the rider pressed in with his mount, trying to shove the slight elf to the ground. Yavandir continued to backpedal; he couldn't get enough distance to strike up at his attacker with his weapon effectively. One blow scraped along the rider's thigh, another fell the flat side of his blade along the horse's flank uselessly. At least his attacker could do little better, unable to guide his animal effectively while trying to attack the nimble elf.

A blow struck down across the top of Yavandir's shield, the blade digging into his tunic and drawing blood. Panicked and feeling his nerve failing Yavandir begged forgiveness from the Gods, then jumped back and swung heavily to the side. The back hook of his light hammer dug into the horse's neck just below it's jaw. The animal reared, wrenching the hammer in Yavandir's hand, nearly tearing it from his grip before it came loose. The rider managed to stay on as the horse plunged down again, but a quick wild twist and a second buck dropped him hard to the ground. Yavandir skirted the charging animal to close with his downed foe. He swung again, his weapon catching the man between the ribs on his right side, digging in again. The man let out a dolorous moan, and drew in a ragged breath, his whole form convulsing as Yavandir wrenched his weapon free again. His would be executioner curled up in a ball, clutching his wound and something akin to a whimper rose form the man, but Yavandir wasted no time with mercy, his weapon came down again, catching the man in the skull this time, ending his life instantly, and leaving him a corpse, still huddled like a babe upon the road.

Yavandir approached the hut warily now, still no sign of Dishram, the hovel he had called home for these last few years now suddenly seemed to ooze menace. At a dozen or so paces a silhouette coalesced from the darkness and stepped right out of Yavandir's nightmares and into the light. The horned helm was all he saw first, and it drained the strength from his limbs. The warrior, clad not in plate but in dark studded leathers lined with sleek otter fur moved slowly from the doorway onto the porch. His sword was covered in blood, but his shield was unmarred by combat. He wasn't the knight, some part of Yavandir's mind kept telling him that, it was just some soldier, some unskilled footman like himself; but his limbs were slow to respond. The soldier propped his sword, a smile born from evil amusement on his lips as he scooped up Dashrim's crossbow and took aim at Yavandir. That act snapped the life back into the terrified elf. He brought his shield up just in time to catch the shot across Durcian's crest. The head of the bolt pierced his shield, two inches of metal and wood questing through it, inches from his heart. The imminence of his own demise revitalized Yavandir, and with a yelping Elven war cry he charged his foe. The soldier was no rookie though. He scooped up his blade quickly, only slightly caught off guard by the speed of the elf's charge. Yavandir struck the first blow, his light hammer rebounding off the soldier's shield. A return stroke was likewise caught by sturdy shield. The two combatants circled for position then closed again. Yavandir couldn't keep track of individual strikes, his shield found his enemy's and the two leaned into each other, pressing to unbalance the other while their weapon quested for blood ineffectually. "Cursed Fey!" the soldier spat as they clashed, "This land has no more welcome for your kind. The Lords old ways are dead now, the new Lord will rise, Moullisan will be his strength, and your kind will vanish from memory!"

Yavandir was panting heavily; his weapon was ill made for a shield-press, a single crosscut under the head nearly snapping the weapon in two, and the human was his better when it came to strength. Several cuts now bled across his shins and arms; his vision was blurred by sweat and pain. He felt the strength borne from his panic fading, then a shift gave him the edge. The soldier's pressure on his shield dropped. Sensing a trap Yavandir lightened his own efforts rather than trying to push through the clinch. The move saved him. The soldier's 'weakness' was only a gathering of strength that led into a Shield rush. With his slight weight and his balance high Yavandir was pushed back, but his high center of balance was actually an asset. His weight, not half that of a normal man much less one his height, very nearly floated as the two shields clashed. He was able to find his footing without much of a stagger, while his opponent, expecting to meet more resistance had followed through with all his might, and so skewed himself around to face almost the same direction as Yavandir himself. The opening was a gift, one readily accepted. Yavandir drove his weapon down, catching the soldier in the shoulder. The blow was solid, but still the soldier tried to push himself to his feet. Yavandir fell on him with his shield, pressing the wounded man back down to his knees, then forward onto his face. Yavandir lashed out at the man's back and side around the edge of the shield. Hammering again and again while the other struggled to throw him off. Gradually the struggles lessened and lessened, until the Soldier lay still. Yavandir struck a few times more, only afterwards realizing at some point the head of his weapon had broken off in the soldier's side. His last few blows had been clumsy stabs with a blunt club.

The battle was ended, or, if it wasn't Yavandir had nothing left for a third foe. He sat up, his shield now sprawled across his lap, Durcian's crest spattered with blood, vomit and worse form the man's death. His own wounds ached, and his fingers felt numb from gripping his now useless weapon. The realization of what had happened, what was said, sank into him. The young Lord had allied himself with Moullissan? If it was true... Yavandir looks down upon his shield again. Durcian's crest may have been erased by this battle, but the lion still shone above the stains. His duty was clear, the loyalty in his elven blood called to him.

The hut burned, Dashrim's body arranged in repose within it, ready to be carried on to whatever afterlife the humans believed in. Yavandir's wounds were bandaged, his shield scrubbed with dead leaves to remove what stains could be. There was no salvaging his weapon though, and so he had belted on the soldier's blade. The sword had been wielded by a fell hand and its cold iron pommel stung Yavandir's sensitive elven flesh each time he held it, but he senses no inherent evil in the blade itself. Both men had had their heads removed, their bowls spilled, and dirt ground into their innards to assure they'd be no use to any dark wizards in rituals or as servants. But No burial nor pire awaited them, their dark souls would linger without release until the animals carried their bones away. Yavandir stooped and cut a point from the antler-adorned warrior's helm. Tucking the token into his belt he let out a sigh towards the scene.

"Time to get moving." he announced to the air. The hut crackled behind him, it would bring no tolls for evil. Yavandir shouldered a pack with as much traveling food as he could manage, and the last of the tolls he'd collected before his 'termination.' The King would need to learn of this development, others might already be on their way, but each that set out meant one more that might make it to deliver the message. With one last look at the clear white of his small stretch of Brightgate road; he'd even cleaned the blood spilled by the horseman's death from its stones, Yavandir set out. He felt guilty for leaving the road unattended, but risking the short term would go a long way towards preserving the long. That was how elves thought, it was something humans with their short life spans could rarely grasp. And as he set out for a court he had never seen, across roads he had never traveled, Yavandir envied their simplicity.


End file.
